The Stairway
by HerWretchedWastrel
Summary: But it's the eyes that make Sam both angrier and more afraid. Icy, like a biting wind, full of frost and coolness. Makes Sam wonder if Hell runs hot at all. Maybe it's full of ice. Samifer AU


**Notes:** this was originally for the Samifer exchange, which I am a few months late in turning in. The prompt was: wealth, radio, telephone. However, while I did factor in these prompts, the fic itself is structured around "Stairway to Heaven" by Led Zeppelin. It was also pretty influenced by the Clarice Starling/Hannibal dynamic.

**Aegidoll is making a set of wonderful art to go along with the fic. More drawings will be added as the week goes on. The art masterpost can be found in my profile.**

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**Title: **The Stairway

**Pairing:** Samifer, with a heavy undertone of Wincest.

**Word count**: 12,150

**Warnings:** rough sex, dub!con, basically I take Sammy and I tear him apart piece by piece because reasons.

**Summary:** _He looks down at the killer from where he's standing, and glares with such a burning hatred, he begins wondering how it is that Lucifer hasn't somehow burst into flames. But the man is nowhere near to being on fire. Everything about him is cold; his soft, mocking smile, his neat, straight posture, his nonchalant, indifferent face. But it's the eyes that make Sam both angrier and more afraid. Icy, like a biting wind, full of frost and coolness. Makes Sam wonder if Hell runs hot at all. Maybe it's full of ice._

—-

Yes, there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run  
There's still time to change the road you're on.

—-

_He woke suddenly, eyes shooting open to a bleak, wide nothingness that fell over him like the coldest of blankets. His eyes stared upwards, up into a blackness that seemed to stare right back at him, a lone circle of light shining back down at him. A shuddered breath escaped him, chills crawling down his spine. It was like looking up from the other end of an eternal abyss. Like looking into the mouth of a beast about to eat you whole. He shifted his eyes away uncomfortably, his back and head trembling slightly, groaning incoherently, letting out a hiss of pain as he attempted to sit up. His shirt and pants were heavy, icy, and it took him a few minutes to realize that he was soaked, drenched in frigid liquid and sitting up in a goddamn puddle. _

_He let out a gasp, frantically splashing out of the water and scurrying to his feet, only to be sent reeling through a nauseating state of vertigo, his eyes rolling backwards as a fresh lump of bile began to rise up in his throat. A harsh wheeze escaped his lips as he tried to regain his step, the throbbing ache pounded along his skull sending him stumbling across the floor as the world seemed to tilt downwards. He landed on his hands and knees, letting out a soft moan as he ran his palm through his wet, matted hair, his fingers brushing against the nape of his neck, and a small yelp escaped his lips, eyes widened as a sharp pang of pain shot through his nerves. Curious, he brought his fingers towards his face. It was dark and sticky with what he could only imagine to be blood._

_He shut his eyes, frantically trying to calm his frenzied nerves. He was fine. All he needed to do was find a way out, and get help. That's all. He carefully rose to his feet, fighting the screaming pain that shot through his head. He looked around with wearily, trying to make out the black shapes and shadows that monopolized his blurred vision. He could see nothing. Everything was just so clammy and so cold and so very dark, save for that one sliver of light that cascaded from the faraway mouth. There was no sound, save for the lone, echoing drip of water, and his shaky, unsteady breaths. His hands ran across the damp walls that surrounded him, searching frantically for a way out. Where the hell was he, anyways?_

_"You're in a well."_

_His eyes shot up, squinting up through the darkness and towards the ring of light. A lone boy peered down towards him, plump, full lips pulled back into a smirk. "What you get yourself into this time, Sammy?" he said with a tsk, resting his head on his arms. "You're fucking lucky that well is pretty damn dry, or else you would've been in a shitload of trouble."_

_Sam furrowed his eyebrows, tilting his head to the side. "Who'er you?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck absently. He looked around, fingers touching the wet walls of the well. "And how did I get down here?"_

_The boy's eyes widened, lips stretching into a grimace. "Damn, Sam, how hard d'you hit that pretty head of yours?" he asked, tone dipping towards concern. "It's me, Dean." His voice became slightly smug. "Your good lookin' bro."_

_Sam blinked, mouth drawing into a tight line as he searched his thoughts. His memories felt hazy, blurred, mixed up. A fresh wave of nausea hit him, and he stumbled backwards, hands clawing to regain his stance. Everything seemed tilted, arranged wrong, like he was gonna slide down to the side of the well. He shook his head, trying to gain balance. "I…I was running," he murmured, squeezing his eyes shut. "Morning run. Dad made me get up extra early 'cuz I mouthed off at him last night." He felt his voice become sharp and hateful, felt a surge of spite hit him hard and angry. Fuck him._

_He felt his stomach lurch, a heavy rush of bile racing up his throat, and he couldn't help but gag._

_"Hey, hey Sam, stay with me," Dean called out, worry lacing his voice. "Pretty sure you got a concussion kiddo, gotta get you out."_

_"How?" Sam slurred. The pounding in his head was getting louder, and he rubbed his forehead as a sudden sting of pain shot through his skull. His stomach coiled as he continued to squint up towards his brother. "Lower a rope or something."_

_Dean nodded, disappearing from the opening for what seemed forever before throwing a bundle of wood and rope towards him. It rolled down the wet walls, clanking as it finally came to a stop near his feet. Sam took a small step forwards, inspecting what he finally recognized to be a rope ladder. It was obviously old, the wood rotten and splintered, the rope frayed and thinning in more than one place. "I….I don't think this is a good idea," Sam said, biting his lip as he gave the ladder a firm tug. "It's probably gonna break and I'm gonna fall again."_

_Dean smiled down at him, but his face seemed strained with uneasiness. "S'okay Sam," he said in what Sam recalled to be his "big bro" voice. "Gonna coach you through it, you'll be fine."_

_Sam eyed the ladder warily. Cautiously, he placed one foot on a plank before putting all his weight onto it. The wood creaked and groaned, but stayed put. He drew a long breath before taking another step up. The ladder shook slightly. "That's it, Sammy," Dean called down, an anxious grin on his face. "Just keep doin' that."_

_The younger boy gave a nervous grin before clutching onto the rope and climbing further. The ladder continued to squeak and creak, threatening to give out under him. Halfway up, a rung snapped in half, and Sam scrambled to keep his balance, gripping tightly around the rope until his knuckles turned white. He looked up at Dean, and his vision got hazy, felt like he was looking at three Deans. "M'gonna fall, Dean," he called out, voice thick and confused. "M'gonna fall and hit my head again."_

_"No you're not," Dean said sternly, green eyes latching onto his. "You're gonna get your scrawny ass up here, and then we're gonna take a look at your head."_

_Sam said nothing, but continued to climb. The rungs shook under his feet, whined every time he shuffled forwards. The rope seemed rough and harsh against his calloused hands, like they were gonna burn the skin right off. Nausea threatened to hit him at every tremble of the ladder, at every movement he made. But the ring of light got closer, grew with every step he took. He was almost there, could already feel the cool breeze hit his face, could hear the wind whispering through the trees. And Dean was there, smile losing nervousness and gaining pride, eyes wide and cheerful as he got closer to him._

_And then a rope snapped._

_He barely caught himself, hands sliding down the stretch of a lone rung until he managed to skid to a stop. His palms burned with a stinging pain, and he didn't have to look at them to know he had probably chafed his skin severely. He felt himself dangle helplessly, still so close to the surface, but lolling over a descending darkness. Against his own instincts he looked down and saw nothing but black. A fresh lump of bile bubbled up and he couldn't help but throw up all over the wall._

_"Hey Sam! Sam!" Sam lifted his eyes and managed to train them on Dean. "You with me Sammy?"_

_Sam nodded._

_"Okay, listen to me closely," Dean said, and there wasn't panic in his voice, just a controlled coolness. "You gotta listen to me, okay?" Not waiting for an answer, Dean continued. "Remember how Dad taught us. Rope between your legs. "_

_Sam stared up at his brother. Both of them knew that rope climbing was Sam's least favorite exercise, not because he couldn't do it (he could), but because Dad would make Sam go at it again and again until he did it perfectly to form. Sam fucking hated it. He could climb and rappel just fine without Dad bitching for him to do just everything right._

_"I can do it." His voice was slurred, but determined, and he clutched the rope tightly._

_Dean rolled his eyes, letting out a frustrated huff. "Okay, Sam? This isn't the time for one of your bitch fits. Now do as I fucking say. Rope between your legs and in the instep."_

_Sam glared, opened his mouth to retort when he felt the rope give a little._

_"Come on Sam, let's go!" and there was a crack in the control, a hint of worry, and Sam couldn't help but do as he was told, wrapping the rope around his knee and calf, bending his legs and inching forward. "That's right Sammy," Dean called down. "Brake n' squat. Just keep doing that, just a little further."_

_Sam nodded, ignoring the stinging pain in his palms as he pulled himself upwards, sliding up the frayed braids. Bend and pull, slither up. The pounding in his head was still there, still drumming against his ears, but he kept his eyes trained on Dean's, kept himself focused on the one thing that could get him out of there. The opening of the well was so close now, and Dean's lips were drawn into a tight line as he continued to give Sam instructions, hand there to grasp onto his skinny arm and finally pull him to safety._

_They both collapsed onto the grass, huffing and gasping for breath. The sky was grey above them, fog just starting to fade away from the woodland. "How did I end up over here?" Sam wondered, looking over to Dean._

_Dean snorted, shrugging his shoulders. "Don't ask me, genius. I just followed your ass here because I knew you were gonna do something stupid." He sat up and stretched, bones cracking into place. He looked over to Sam, running his fingers through sweat-soaked hair. "Just don't do that again, alright Sam?" Sam nodded, too tired to think up of a response. Their eyes met, for just a moment, Dean's hand still tangled in Sam's hair, before Dean looked away, standing up and helping Sam to his feet. "Alright kid, let's get home and take a look at your head."_

_A surge of something swelled up inside Sam, gave him flutters in his stomach. A gentle breeze blew across his brow, and he grinned sheepishly. "Okay."_

_Everything's okay when Dean's here._

—

Detective Sam Campbell was damned good at his job. He was, really; the fast chain of promotions he had gotten since first joining the police force spoke for themselves, as well as the certificates and awards that the walls of his apartment. He'd been top of his class at the Academy, had graduated with honors, had joined the Los Angeles police force and climbed to a respectable position in a very short time. For ten years, he'd done his job almost perfectly- caught the bad guys, put them behind bars, deliver justice. Hell, the drug ring that had plagued the city for years had been taken down because of him; he'd found the loopholes within the loopholes, tied them shut, and handed the DA her case on a silver platter. And it wasn't to say that it was easy, of course; nothing was ever simple, but Sam was used to it, used to getting the short end of the stick and making the most of it. Just like his Dad taught him. (He would be proud, Sam thinks. Would've been proud if he lost his stubbornness and saw the good Sam was doing with his life. But they never really talked anymore, so that was a lost cause.)

But there was one case.

(We all have them, his chief had said. We all have that one case that will haunt us til the skin rots off our bones, and maybe even then, it'll still be there, blood on your hands and death in your arms. Still be there when you dream.)

One case that still makes his blood run cold, even though it was so long ago. That still makes its way into his head every time he sleeps. Even now, it takes every inch of willpower not to wince every time he sees an empty cradle or crib, every time a flame burns from a fireplace. Every time a phone rings too long, every time a radio station decides to let Robert Plant croon a sad, soft tune. And oh God, he wishes he could just not remember any of it, just push it all to the back of his head, but the images are vivid, playing in his mind like a horror movie on repeat. It was his first case. His very first case that he had become involved with, not even as a detective. He'd still been a rookie cop back then, still had that bright-eyed look in his eyes, had been excited to do more than hand out traffic tickets and report jaywalking.

It had been a rude awakening, to say the least. His unit had gotten an anonymous tip, and had sent him and his partner Brady to check it out. The higher-ups had probably thought that the call had been a joke, and Sam would be lying if he said he didn't think so as well- the message had been short and sweet: "Go to 4451 Tupal Ave. for a surprise." Sounded like a bad line out of a B-horror film. So Sam hadn't worried much. Had taken his orders and driven over to the address, Brady brooding next to him.

It had been a house. Nothing out of the ordinary about it, just a little one-story building in an average neighborhood. There was a truck in the driveway, so he'd assumed that someone was home, and had gone over to the wooden door, had knocked politely. When no one answered, he'd gone to the back, jimmied his way in (made him feel guilty at first, bending over the law to get the job done, but he would imagine green eyes smirking with pride, and that was enough for him). Brady was waiting for him in the cruiser ("It's probably just some teenagers being brats, you handle it"), so Sam had gone in alone, walking into a kitchen. Everything seemed to have been in perfect condition, all neat and pristine and clean. A kettle had steamed from its perch on the stove.

That's what had first tipped him off.

He had rushed into every room, a strange wave of panic surging through his core, looking for something, because something wasn't natural about a quiet empty house with a truck in the driveway and a kettle whistling steam. Something was off, and he had (quite stupidly) decided to charge right in without assessing the situation. Finally, he had approached the final door in the house. A bright, colorful sign was hung upon it, decorated with little farm animals, all smiling and innocent. "BABY", it had said, in big black letters that were obviously handwritten, but with such tender decorativeness that screamed adoration. Music poured out from under the door, vocals fuzzed and drowning in the broken static, and _Ooh, it makes me wonder_. He'd knocked on the door tediously at first, and then a bit louder, and then harsher, and then he was banging against the door with his fists, panic and paranoia sweeping through his system A chill had shuddered through him, and in the back of his mind, he had known he had to leave, he had to get at least Brady to back him up, because something wasn't right, and the truck was still in the driveway, and the kettle had been on the stove, and music was playing from inside the room, the door was locked.

He doesn't really know why he decided to go in by himself. But he did. He broke the lock and entered the room. And by God, the image is still so vivid, burned into his brain with a heated brand. A pool of blood stretching wide across the white carpet, splatters of red draped across the baby blue skies and green trees that adorned the walls. Bloody handprints clenching onto the pale blue bars of a crib, slipping down into a line that dragged across the floor. It was sickening, horrifying, and _the forests will echo with laughter._ But there wasn't a body, not anywhere. The crib, he had thought, and a fresh pile of bile had risen up to his throat at the thought. But he had crept towards it, slowly, hand fingering the gun on his side, hesitantly peeping over the bars to see…nothing.

The crib had been empty.

A mixture of relief and anxiousness had built up in his chest. His hands had fiddled along his belt, grasping his radio to get back up. He'd been rambling, not really sure what to say, how to describe the scene, and then he felt it.

Drip.

Drip.

A pale, yellowish liquid fell onto his blue shirt, small little drops that dotted the fabric here and there. He had immediately froze, heart pounding against his chest as he forced himself to swallow the dry lump that had suddenly formed in his throat. Everything inside of him was screaming not to look up, to just keep his eyes steady and walk right out of that room and finish calling for backup. But Sam Campbell, reasonable human being or not, was still, at the end of the day, a human being. So he looked up.

_The piper's calling you to join him._

The face, he decides, is the face that will stare at him as he dreams, that will watch him from every dark corner of every room he enters, that will stare at him with bloodied sockets and hollow black holes until his dying breath. He remembers how he couldn't find the voice to scream, all tangled up in terror and horror and disgust as his eyes came across a woman spread across the ceiling, viciously burned to the point that he was sure he could smell flesh roasting. Her skin was cut and flayed, bones showing in more than a few places, some hair yanked out in bloody chunks. But her face. Her face is what he cannot blink out of memory- the silver piece of duct tape placed across her mouth had been literally soaking with blood, red lines of liquid dribbling down her neck. Her nose was bent in the most unnatural angle he'd ever seen, almost as if it was going to fall right off. And her eyes…her eyes were gone. Carved out crudely, with nothing but blood-caked sockets staring down upon him. He had been sure she was dead, there was no way in hell someone that cut up and nailed to the fucking ceiling could be alive, and he had been fumbling for his radio once more when he had heard it.

A gargling sound, like something choking on a piece of meat. He had looked up once more, and his stomach almost lurched up his throat as he realized that she was still breathing. Looking at him with empty holes, gargling and spitting into the duct tape. She was saying something, he had vaguely noted as he watched her move feebly against the nails that held her in place, tried to say something through the gag that bound her lips. It was the most disgusting, most terrifying, most heartwrenching thing his eyes had ever witnessed. And he still doesn't know what compelled him to try to speak to her, if maybe he was trying to comfort her or maybe himself, but he did. "I'm here to help you," he'd said, and then she had been screaming, shrieking into the piece of tape as her body began to shake violently, skin tearing at where the nails held them in place. Sam had fallen back in shock and horror, only barely noticing a faint red blip flickering from what seemed to be inside of her. The song playing in the background began to reach its final notes.

So Sam ran. He scrambled outside the room and dashed out of house, jolting a sleepy Brady with his blubbering yells, pushing his partner aside as he slipped in his key with sweaty hands, starting the engine and racing out of the area as fast as he could. A loud boom had rumbled just seconds later, orange flames flicking up into the fading day.

He and Brady had reported everything, of course, and were ordered to write a report and to attend a shrink for a few days before going back to work. And honestly, Sam had been sure that this was it, that after a few talks with the head detectives and bonding time with the local therapist he could at least try to put it all behind him.

But it hadn't worked out that way. Another murder, with details matching those Sam gave, occurred not a week afterwards. The explosion had destroyed the house, of course, but an empty cradle and a burnt corpse nailed to a ceiling were unusual, to say the least. And then another body was found a few weeks after that. Ten dead women later, the department was going insane looking for the killer, phones ringing day and night with thousands and tips and complaints and panic, detectives working overtime for days to look over the same slim stack of evidence that got them absolutely nowhere. He's smart, they would mumble to themselves, and it became a sort of mantra, words full of rage and frustration and tiredness.

And Sam said it too, said it a lot as he stared at his ceiling from dusk til dawn, not daring to close his eyes lest he see her sightless face. He'd let his mind relive that day with such vividness he sometimes swore it was real, let himself mull over every detail he had noticed as he explored the house. Night after night he would think, relive, stare blankly upwards, dark rings forming telltale circles under his eyes. "Who?" he would whisper to himself. "How? Why?" Every thought he ever had become centered around the murders, every second spent mulling and thinking and wondering. It had quickly become an obsession, his desk crowded with notes and theories, wall covered with papers and newspaper clippings. It ate at him, as weeks turned into months, as phones continued to shriek rather than ring.

(Sometimes, if he stared hard enough, he was sure that the pictures of victims and suspects that peppered his wall stared back at him- sometimes in anger, sometimes in sorrow, sometimes in laughter.)

It was personal. He wasn't sure why, but it was. The higher-ups began to notice. Some suggested for him to get a few weeks off. Others were interested in what he had to say. Confiscated his notes, went over them, and he guessed that they liked them, because suddenly, he was discussing his hunches with people far higher up the food chain than he, putting in his input here and there as they went over their notes as well. And really, to this day, he doesn't know how he'd become so entangled in it all. He was a pretty new at the force, shouldn't have been more than another face in a sea of blue. But there he was, Sam Campbell, rookie cop, smack in the middle of the most disturbing murder cases in the history of Los Angeles.

And it was Sam Campbell who had solved it.

It had taken twenty women to die, _twenty fucking women_, but Sam, after skimming over the victims' files for seemingly the millionth time, he had finally noticed the connection- while only twelve of the twenty women had children, every single victim had visited children's clinics in the same time frame. Some of the women brought in their children, others were there to babysit for a sibling or a nephew. And while the clinics seemed to have nothing in connection with each other, Sam had been sure that they were the key. A week later, LAPD officers were arresting Dr. Nick Starmon, a brilliant pediatrician who had made it a habit to visit every clinic he ever worked at and killing one or two of the patients. Nothing like the monstrous figure Sam had imagined in his mind; rather, he was a solemn looking man, with a refined posture and soft, smooth voice. The arrest had been a frenzy, civilians mixing in with cops, screaming and yelling in both fear and triumph. Sam had lingered on the sides, watching intently as the object of his obsessions was walked towards a cruiser. Just before he entered the car, though, the doctor had paused, lifting his eyes slowly as they somehow beamed through the thick, restless crowd and zeroed in on Sam. Cold blue eyes looked at him with an unreadable expression, as if he was assessing him, accepting him for the slaughter. And then, Dr. Nick Starmon disappeared into the car.

—

_"Are there such things as monsters?" Sam asks Dean. They're resting on top of the cold, sleek metal of Dean's '67 Impala, lazily looking up at the stars twinkling in the sky. Dean gives Sam a questioning look, trying to catch his eyes, but Sam keeps on staring upwards, refuses to look at his brother. Dean quirks an eyebrow before settling back against the car. "Something happen Sammy? 'Fraid the Big Bad Wolf will gobble you up?" he teases, but his voice is laced a hint of worry and hardness. Sam doesn't answer, doesn't even look at him. The older boy humphs before gazing back up towards the stars. "Nah, 'course not, Sam." He pauses, a serious look clouding his eyes. "At least not like the ones in books. Those kinds of monsters don't exist."_

_Sam bites his lip, unconsciously scooting closer to the cool leather of his brother's jacket. "What kind of monsters do exist, then?" he asks, and he's still not looking at Dean, can't look at Dean._

_A silence, deafening and loud, rings through Sam's ears before he feels a gentle hand grasp his shoulder firmly. "The ones inside us Sammy," Dean say, voice somewhere between soft and rough. "The ones inside _all_ of us."_

—

When Chief Singer approached him, Sam was taken aback.

"He won't talk," he said, voice gruff and seething. "Says he won't say anything."

Sam blinked, head tilting in confusion. "We don't need a confession, right? We've got him," he pointed out, confused that the chief had approached _him, _of all people, with this information.

The older man gritted his teeth, cursing low under his breath. "It's all circumstantial, boy. Won't mean anything 'til we get a confession." He lifted his eyes, so worn and tired with it all. "But he won't. Says he won't say anything. Unless…"

Sam scrunched his eyebrows in confusion. "Unless what?"

The chief let out an empty chuckle. "He wanted to give you a message." He paused, looking at Sam straight in the eye before opening his mouth to speak. "'You can call me Lucifer.'"

…

That was ten years ago. Ten years' worth of cases, ten years' worth of growing up from a boyish stick into a young man. Ten years' worth of fighting crime. Ten years' worth of dialing a number he hasn't called in years, only to hang up before it even starts to ring. But only three years' worth of meeting the love of his life. Only two months' worth of finding her burnt corpse blazing from the top of their ceiling.

And she was only the first. The fires started up again, and it was like reliving the "Inferno" case all over again, except they had made Sam sit it out, telling him he needed to take a break, mourn, cope, before he got back into the job. And even then, he wasn't allowed to touch this particular case with a ten-foot pole ("You're angry Sam, you're too blinded by your rage. You need to sit this one out. This is for the best"). But if there's anything Sam's learned from his Dad, its how to get what he wants, when he wants.

So here he is, showing fake papers and faker grins, charming his way through the prison system (he learned from the best, after all). He's gonna get caught at some point, he knows, but he doesn't fucking care. Nick (or rather, Lucifer) has been in his cell for the past decade, hadn't budged an inch on the day of Jess's death. But Sam knows, he just knows that the killer knows what's going on, is maybe even orchestrating it all. So Sam's gonna find out. He's gonna wrench the information right out of the bastard's teeth and then he's gonna kill him. He'll lose his badge, his job, and will probably get a bucketload of his buddies at the station after him for the rest of his life, but he. Just. Doesn't. Care.

He requests a private room, one without cameras or recorders, and he's lead to a small, dark room with only a few flickering lights overhead. They bring in Lucifer, chained from head to toe, but somehow managing to be carrying a deck of cards, his eyes wandering from wall to wall as if he has nothing better to do with his time. They sit the inmate down onto a chair, redoing his chains in such a way that he has freedom to move his hands, but not nearly enough to escape. The escorts then say that they'll be right outside, whisper to Sam with meaningful looks, tell him to not worry, there aren't recording devices anywhere in the room. He nods and they close the door.

The detective immediately reaches into his pocket and starts up his scrambler, homemade and very useful. He knows better than to trust a cop. He fucking is one.

He looks down at the killer from where he's standing, and glares with such a burning hatred, he begins wondering how is it that Lucifer hasn't somehow burst into flames. But the man is nowhere near to being on fire. In fact, everything about him is cold; his soft, mocking smile, his neat, straight posture, his nonchalant, indifferent face. But it's the eyes that make Sam both angrier and more afraid. Icy, like a biting wind, full of frost and coolness. Makes Sam wonder if Hell runs hot at all. Maybe it's full of ice.

"What can I do for you, Detective?" Lucifer drawls, folding his arms across the table. There's a smile in his eyes. Sam immediately feels his rage begin to bubble over.

"I think you know exactly how you could help me," Sam growls. His look is fierce and murderous, only growing darker as he leans over the small table, flexing his large frame to emphasize his built and rather intimidating muscles. "So why don't we skip the pleasantries, and you just tell me how you did it, who you sent, and then maybe I'll be nice and kill you quick." His eyes are murderous, burning with a rage that flames through his blood and through his bones.

Anyone else would have been shitting their pants at this point, immediately broken by the sheer hatred and anger that burns off Sam's body like a scent. But apparently not Lucifer. He hasn't flinched once, hasn't budged from his comfortable position in his chair. He gives Sam a sort of deadpanned look before sighing and shaking his head. "I thought you were better than this, Mr. Winchester," Lucifer says, picking up his stack of cards and laying them out in front of him. He starts shuffling the pile, idly running his fingers against the rough edges. "That bad-cop routine will get you nowhere in life, I'm afraid."

Sam flinches at the name "Winchester". How the hell does this man know his name at all? Especially when he hasn't used that last name in years.

"I know all my children's names," Lucifer says, almost as if to answer Sam's inside question. He fiddles mindlessly with a jack of spades. "Especially yours, Sam."

Heated frustration makes its way back through Sam's system, and he's lunging forward, teeth clenched and fists balled up, ready to give this guy the pummeling of his life, beat him until he gives Sam the name of Jess's killer, and then Sam will squeeze his throat until he's gargling on his own blood, maybe stab a pen into his eyes. Make him pay, he thinks obsessively. Make him pay. He grabs a fistful of the inmate's orange jumpsuit, pulling him harshly forward as Sam swings his fist backwards in order to throw the first punch.

But then Lucifer's staring at him, not exactly glaring or giving him any heated looks. But the gaze is long and hard and so very icy, burning with the coldness that rises from hell. He's suddenly frozen, feels like he can't move under the stare. The convict's lips are drawn into a thin line, face unreadable. "Sit down, Sam," he says, voice just as cold as the rest of him.

Sam hates being told what to do. Hates being given orders and expected to obey. Hates that a fucking killer is getting under his skin, sending shivers down his spine.

Sam sits down.

—-

_"C'mon, gimme some popcorn bitch."_

_Sam rolled his eyes, pulling the tub closer to his chest. "You've eaten like, five bowls already. I've barely gotten any for myself." He leaned back against the couch, crisscrossing his legs as his gaze drifted back to the TV. He could barely see Dean from the corner of his eye, but Sam didn't have to look over to know that Dean was brooding. He could practically_hear _Dean puff and pout with annoyance._

_"You're no fun, Sammy." Dean grumbled, sprawling his limbs in relaxation. He stared at the ceiling in silence for a grand total of five seconds before letting his gaze roll over to Sam. The younger boy was eating popcorn absently, eyes wide and paying rapt attention to the movie flickering on the screen. All bright blue uniforms and streams of yellow tape, the sounds of sirens and gunshots filtering through the room._

_"You've got some big cop kink, y'know that?"_

_Sam gave him an unamused look. "Strippers are your thing, not mine," he said, trying to sound as full and mature as a fifteen year old can. "I like this movie, big deal."_

_Dean snorted out a chuckle before scooting closer, hands reaching for the bowl. Sam shimmied away, his face splitting into a dimpled grin. "Mine," he said, giving Dean that smug little bitch face he'd been perfecting since he was a kid. The older boy grunted before launching over and tackling Sam's midriff, fingers clawing for the bowl. They wrestled, pushing and pulling and then Sam was pinned onto the couch, and he was laughing, laughing harder than he had in years, tears brimming at his eyes. But then he looked up, looked up at Dean, his big brother Dean, watched his lips fall away from the playful smirk and draw into a thin line. "Sam…look. I-"_

_"I'm home!" a voice called out from the kitchen, all gruff and gravel. Sam and Dean froze, barely moving an inch as they heard the footsteps grow louder. The door swung open and a tired-looking man walked into the living room, throwing his bags onto a chair, letting out a weary sigh as he shrugged off his jacket. "Sam, could you do me a favor and help me with th-"_

_He paused, eyes glued on where Sam and Dean were sprawled together on the couch, large bowl of popcorn tossed and forgotten on the floor. Sam choked on his own spit, unable to read his father's eyes._

_"Dad, look, Dean and I were just watching a movie and we had a fight over the popcorn and you know it…it…" he trailed off, chest clenching uncomfortably as nausea continued to bubble up inside him._

_The room was silent for what seemed an eternity, nothing but faraway shouts and gunshots sounding from the television. Sam's heart was pounding in his ears, his blood going cold and stiff in his veins. He was sure he could hear Dean's heart too, could hear it beating loudly and wildly and desperately. He let his eyes flicker over to his brother, only to see Dean bite his lip and look away, shame and self-loathing evident in his face. Sam ducked down, flush creeping up his neck. He didn't know what was worse, the embarrassment or the guilt._

_Finally, John cleared his throat, turning away from the couch. "Clean up and get ready for training." John's face was a blank slate, his voice robotic. His eyes were off looking at some corner of the room, never on Sam and Dean, _anywhere_ but on Sam and Dean._

_Sam's face scrunched up, his brow furrowed. "But we don't have training until-"  
"Do as I say, Sam." And his voice was tired, weary, _knowing.

_Nothing was really the same after that._

—-

Ten minutes into the interrogation, and they haven't spoken another word.

Sam is still glaring at him, pulse pounding madly inside his own head as he watches the man calmly build a tower out of playing cards. Stacking them up neatly and carefully, fully concentrated on this one task, and ignoring San completely. It's pissing Sam off. Really, everything about this is pissing him off. He should have grabbed the information by now, made a break for it before people begin to realize he's not supposed to be in here. Should have killed the bastard, found the one who killed Jess. Instead, he's sitting in a small room, lights flickering, watching a goddamn killer fiddle idly. He's going the kill the fucker, he knows. Someday.

"So, how's your sex life, Sammy?"

Sam's eyes widen, his cheeks burning a hot red. Lucifer isn't even fucking looking at him, cold eyes still concentrating on that stupid card tower. Humming "Stairway to Heaven" while his hands gingerly stack the cards on, one by one, skilled and precise. His face is lax, relaxed, as if he isn't wearing an orange jumpsuit and sitting in America's most highly-guarded prison. He's so calm, too calm. It makes Sam's blood go cold.

"Why are you so interested in my personal life?" Sam counters, trying to keep his cool. A heated edge slips out, and it irritates Sam, it irritates him that after ten years of the most grueling cases, ten years of dealing with the most hardened criminals without breaking a sweat, this one is crawling under his skin, suffocating him from the inside out, making him want to squirm in his seat, all without even trying.

The convict doesn't even bother looking up from his tower, pausing to pick up a card and study it intently. It's an ace of spades. Rough, calloused fingers gently run up and down the glossy material, ghosting over the edges, almost as if he was caressing the damned thing. It makes chills go down Sam's spine, makes him feel like those fingertips are ghosting across his back. Makes a lump of bile form in his throat.

"Now now, no need to get all uptight about it," Lucifer's saying, eyes still staring at the card intently. "Just trying to get to know you, Sam."

A searing pain cuts through Sam's stomach and he glares at Lucifer with raging eyes. "Don't call me that," he snaps, and he immediately regrets it.

It feels like the world's stopped moving, feels like the temperature in the room's dropped to a freezing cold. Lucifer's hands pause, and he just sits there, not doing anything. Sam struggles to swallow, but he doesn't look away from the still figure. Can't show off any weakness. Needs to let him know who's in charge.

But then he's setting the card down, sliding it to the side casually before folding his hands in front of him, like a mockery of a prayer. He huffs an almost exasperated breath, as if Sam's in the wrong here, somehow. Slowly, he drifts his eyes up towards the detective, and they are awful. Not hardened, not angry, not spiteful. They make the blood rush away from Sam's face, make his skin crawl and hair stand. Empty. That's really the only word that comes up in the young man's mind, but that's not really it, either. It's like they know everything about him, like they can reach right into Sam's mind and pick him apart brick by brick, find the darkest secrets, bring them to light.

A glint of amusement flashes across the green pupils. "What's the matter, Sam?" he asks, voice smooth and silky. He's got this look of concern on his face, and it just makes Sam want to throw up. "Is sex something embarrassing for you?"

Sam's heart is pounding, and a seething rage is bubbling inside of him. He glares at the inmate, eyes deadly. "We're not here to talk about my sex life," he says coolly, hoping that the man can't hear his rapid pulse. "We're here because you said you could help us with a case."

Lucifer leans back, nodding his head in agreement. "Ah yes. The 'Inferno Murders'. Women somehow pinned above their own beds and burned alive. Over two dozen dead. All a shame. So many lives _wasted_." He's shaking his head in something resembling sympathy, and it makes Sam sick to his stomach, makes him sick that he's having a conversation with a person who did those horrible, terrifying things to those poor women. Lucifer's eyes flicker upwards, biting his lips as if in thought. There's a pause, before those cold eyes glint back towards Sam.

"It was solved a decade ago," Lucifer's muttering, as if he wasn't the one who caused all that pain, all that damage. "And then suddenly, another murder, far too detailed to be a copycat, suddenly occurred." he pauses a beat, locking eyes with the detective. "Jessica Moore. Your girlfriend, right Sammy?"

The look Lucifer's giving him is like a hot knife burying itself into the dead center of his chest, twisting slowly and painfully. Sam clenches his jaw, still holding his gaze on Lucifer. Under the table, he's gripping the sides of his chair tightly. It takes him a few breaths, but he finally manages to open his mouth. "That's none of your damn business," Sam growls, glaring at the convict with a murderous look.

"Oh but it is," Lucifer counters, leaning forward. The corner of his mouth is slightly twitching. "You see, I have conditions."

"I don't make deals with killers." Sam snaps, ready to get the fuck up and leave, but then Lucifer fixes him with the coldest stare he's ever seen, icy and freezing, and horrid.

"Sit down, Sam," Lucifer murmurs, almost purrs. It's like two heavy hands are dragging Sam back to the chair, like he can't help but obey. He slowly sits back down.

The inmate cracks a grin. "Good boy," he says, a note of approval evident in his voice. He leans forward, eyes intently on Sam. "Now tell me, Sam," he says, tilting his head slightly. "What's your sex life like?"

The taller man, looks down, insides lurching and twisting into knots. "People can hear us you know," he mutters quietly, so far from the raging confidence he had displayed before.

Lucifer smiles widely. "No, they can't." he says matter-of-factly. "You have a scrambler. Cut off communication. Which wasn't necessary, by the way. They never listen to my conversations."

Sam scrunches his eyebrows in confusion. "Of course they listen to your conversations," he says. "It's state law. And especially you, of all people. What makes you think they wouldn't listen to you?"

Lucifer shrugs, picking up a card and flicking it between fingers. "Because they don't like listening," he answers, not looking at Sam at all. "Because every word that comes out of my mouth makes them feel empty and hopeless, full of nothing but ice and fear. I scare them Sammy," he puts down the card, reaching his hands across the table as far as the chain will go. His fingertips just barely graze the bone of Sam's knuckle. "They think I'm the Devil."

You are the Devil, Sam thinks before Lucifer clears his throat and blinks expectantly at Sam. "You haven't answered my question yet, Sam."

"About my sex life." Sam says dully.

"That's right," Lucifer says almost cheerfully. He leans back against his chair, giving Sam a once over. "How do you like it? Do you like it tender? Like making love and all that?" Sam's blushing furiously, looking at the floor between his feet. Why is he playing along? Why is he still here?

The convict observes him for a while before smirking. "Ah yes, that's right. You like giving it rough, right Sammy?" Sam's blood rushes to his ears, and he can't help the sudden flinch his body makes. Lucifer grins, fully intending to make good use of this opening. "You like pushing girls over bathroom sinks, like fucking them from behind. Like ravaging them like you own them." Sam's breathes are coming out harsher, less controlled. His eyes are downcast, unwilling to make eye contact with the other man. He bites his lip until it hurts, tries to still his slightly trembling frame. This situation is so fucked up in so many ways he can't even begin to count. Inside, he hears himself screaming to put a stop to this, to just leave and put this all behind him.

But Lucifer's voice is molten lava, a smooth silk that wraps around your head and takes you apart slowly but surely. "Did you fuck Jessica that way, Sammy? Did you pull that long blonde hair? Did you make her take your cock up her mouth?" There's a silence. The clock in the room ticks quietly, seconds, then minutes going by in a sluggish pace.

"…No."

Lucifer's ears perk up, and he's giving Sam a smug, unsurprised look. "Is that so?" he asks, cold smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. "Are you saying that she was…'different'?" There's that subtle mockery in his voice, coated over with a purr that makes Sam's frame tremble slightly.

"Yes," Sam answers, still looking down. He feels shame ripping him apart. He feels so stupid. Feels like there are suddenly strings attached to his limbs, and he's nothing but a puppet.

Lucifer draws his mouth into a tight line, looking at his card tower in thought. He picks up another card and begins to work on his tower once more. "You know Sam," Lucifer drawls out, placing the cards on top of each other, one by one. "I don't really believe you."

"I'm telling the truth," Sam chokes out. His face is still beet red. "I wasn't rough with…Jess."

"Look at me Sam."

Sam's body is shaking more noticeably now, and it takes everything in him to meet his eyes with Lucifer's. He suddenly feels so small, so insignificant in the scheme of the universe. The weight of the man's gaze is suffocating, horrid. It's like Lucifer stripping him naked with his eyes, bringing to light every horrible thing Sam has ever done and placing it up for review. And everything's so cold, so icy hot. "You know what I think Sam?"

Sam doesn't respond. Sam can't respond. All he can do is stare back at the man, try and keep his eyes on him though his big frame is trembling and his palms are getting very sweaty. There are only a few cards left on the table, Sam notices. Lucifer's still working on the tower, although his eyes are fixated on Sam. Finally, Lucifer looks away for a moment, placing a card on the top of the tower before picking up the last card on the table. He thumbs it gently, running his fingers up and down the sides like he seems to like to do, before pausing and glancing over to Sam.

"I think you've spent the last decade or so trying to prove something to yourself," he says nonchalantly. "Ran away from home at 17, trained to be a great policeman, ended being one of LA's finest detectives." Sam grits his teeth and looks away.

"And you know, that sounds like a really great story. I'm sure grandmas like to eat it all up." He can feel Lucifer's eyes burning into him, can hear the soft rumple of paper as the man continues to fiddle with the playing card. "But you can't escape being a freak."

Sam's eyes snap back towards Lucifer, gaze full of a strange mixture of fear and rage. "I don't know what you're talking about," he manages to choke out, and Lucifer's quiet chuckle is ringing darkly across the room.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," Lucifer counters, pressing forwards, and Sam's heart is pounding, pulse is racing. "Thing is Sammy, you've never had any control in your life. Always had your father following your every move, trying to toughen you up, hoping you'd up and join the Marines like your Dear ol' Dad."

Sam's trembling violently now, breathes coming out harsh and hitched. He can't take his eyes away from the convict though, can't pull his ears away from the smooth curves of his voice, from the words that burn cold in his mind. Lucifer isn't smirking, but the look of understanding that's stretched across his face is worse, Sam thinks; it looks so real and true, but he can see the bemusement that flickers in the killer's eyes. "And everyone just kept telling you what to do, right Sam?" Lucifer continues to press on. "So you ran away. Came here to California, tried to build a new life, your own life." Lucifer pauses, drawing his lips into a pitying grimace. "But you could still hear them, couldn't you? No matter how quickly you climbed to the top of your class, no matter how awards you got, you could still hear Daddy's voice saying how disappointed he was in you, how bad of a son you were."

_(Doesn't matter Sam. Doesn't matter. I know what you do. I know what you_ are_.)_

Sam wants to throw up. There's bile building up in his throat, tears prickling at the edge of his eyes.

"So Sam decides to get control the only way he knows he can. He never hooks up much, but when he does, he fucks them. He tells them what to do, how to take it. Manhandles them. Makes them his because this is the only time Sam Winchester has a say in anything. Am I on the right track here? That why you like it rough?"

Sam's on the verge of crying right now, his limbs are sweaty and trembling, and he's never felt so exposed in his entire life. He feels like a bug pinned on a board, stretched wide open, and Lucifer's the devil with the needle, poking and prodding in every possible place. Lucifer watches Sam, watches him struggle to hold back his tears, and it's fascinating, how fast you can open someone up and break them apart. He continues, voice becoming considerably softer. "But you weren't like that with Jessica, were you?"

Sam only barely manages to choke out a ragged "No".

Lucifer nods in agreement, glancing at the last card in his hand. "No you weren't. You really did love her." He paused, looking up and tapping the corner of the card against his lips. "So much in fact," he murmurs. "That you were completely celibate with her for 3 years. You tried having sex a couple of times, but she didn't like how forceful you were. She tried taking the reins from you once, and you panicked." Lucifer's lips curl into a slight grin. "Because only one person was ever allowed to have control."

That's when the dam breaks, and Sam's a pathetic shuddering mess, tears rolling down his cheeks endlessly, body shaking horribly, cock hard between his legs. He glares at the convict, look heated and seething from the curtain of salty tears. "Fuck you," he spits out. "Just…fuck you." He takes a few shaky breaths, trying to regain control of himself.

But Lucifer's far from done. Far, far from it. "Your own brother, Sam."

—-

_He remembers that night, remembers the violent fight with his father. Remembers running out of the house and using stolen keys to slide into the Impala, remembers screeching down the road, unable to see ahead through the stinging tears that blinded his eyes. Remembers driving fast and without destination. Remembers thinking Dean would kill him._

_But that was sort of the point._

_He was tearing through the streets, ignoring the angry honks and curses, driving up a winding road that slowly morphed from gravel and cement into dirt and dust. Going up a cliff, watching the edge grow closer, bigger, nearer, and not giving a fuck. He was gonna drive right off the edge, was gonna see how his Dad felt, maybe he'd give a fuck about him _then_._

_But suddenly Dean was there, standing between him and the slope of the cliff, in that stupid leather jacket and wearing that stupid necklace Sam had given him when he was nine, and he screeched to a stop, headlights just barely skimming against the rough denim of Dean's jeans. Sam had only slumped into his seat, shaking with sobs, didn't even occur to him to wonder why and how his brother got there so fast as Dean yanked the door open and pulled him out, not saying anything as he cupped his little brother's face, thumb skimming across Sam's bottom lip. There were no words, just stares and touches, the wind whispering through their silence. Dean had only croaked out a whispered "bitch" before pulling Sam into a bruising kiss, running his hands down to grab two handfuls of his little brother's ass before carrying him over to the back seat of the Impala._

_They both fell, descended into the worst and best kind of sin._

—

"He was the only one in the world you trusted. Only one you could give control to." Lucifer leans forward, chains groaning as he reaches towards Sam, and suddenly Sam's suspicious that Lucifer might not be hindered by his bounds at all. "So tell me Sam, when was it exactly when Dean's fat cock first fucked you? You were 15, right? And you'd give it to him too, sure, but you really liked feeling him fill you up, liked riding his dick. Because no one cared for Sammy like Dean." Lucifer pauses, chewing his lip in thought, taking a minute to take in Sam's unsteady breaths, the flush of crimson that stained his tear-stained cheeks, the trembling muscles clutching at the table like its an anchor. And those eyes, so full of fire and rage, and yet full so full of fear and despair and lust. "You two thought you were a fortress. Unbreakable. Unstoppable." He glances at the card tower, looking directly into Sam's eyes as he flips over the card in his hand to reveal the joker. "But all it only takes one thing, Sam. One -just one- mistake," -Lucifer violently flings the card down onto the edge of the tower, and the thing collapses immediately, dozens of cards flying across the table and onto the floor- "And it all. Falls. Down."

Sam looks away in shock, not willing to look at the destroyed tower. His eyes are blurry and sting, he's sniffling like a child, and it's shameful. It's shameful and humiliating. Why can't he leave? Why won't he leave? He tries to stand, to wobble off and get away from Lucifer and his eternal probing.

But then there's a click.

Sam freezes, heart pounding against his chest as he attempts to swerve around to see if the convict is still in his chair, but suddenly he's pushed back against the table, halfway sitting up as Lucifer snakes his way between his legs and runs his hands through Sam's long brown hair, almost soothing in his touch. "He decided to join the military," the shorter man murmurs against his neck, hot breath against sensitive skin making Sam shudder. "He decided to go halfway across the world because you didn't stay." The hand not busy with Sam's hair makes its way down his back, gently rubbing back and forth. "And he sent you an address, but you never sent anything. Gave you a number but you never called."

Sam's body is shaking, squirming under the wandering hands, arching backwards when Lucifer decides to slide a hand under his shirt. "And now he's missing. MIA."

The taller man lets out something close to a sob as the hand under the shirt runs across a nipple, playing with it gently before suddenly giving it a hard pinch. Sam yelps, groaning as the soft pets of his hair morph into a solid yank. "Or maybe that's just what you tell yourself," Lucifer muses, running his teeth against Sam's cheek. "Maybe that's what you tell yourself to make sure he's _real_."

Sam freezes, opening his mouth to form a question but then Lucifer's squeezing his pulsing erection, and all he can let out is a strangled sob. "That's why you're so angry, Sam," Lucifer hisses into his ear before flipping him over. "You're angry because it seems no matter what you do," -Here he pauses, taking the time to yank down Sam's pants and underwear to his knees- "You just destroy everything in the end."

His breath is hot in the detective's ear, fingers brushing against the nape of Sam's neck before forming an iron grip around his throat and forcing him flush against Lucifer's chest. "You want me to tell you who killed precious little Jessica?" the inmate hisses, biting onto a sensitive earlobe until it bleeds, until it the skin is red and puffy and swollen. He ignores Sam's struggles, ignores the clawing and the kicks and the colorful curse words that babble out of the boy's mouth. "Truth is Sammy, I know _exactly_ who killed her."

Sam manages to look up from against his chest, his eyes full of rage and desperation. "Who?" he croaks out, his knees shaking, his hands trying desperately to pull Lucifer's wrists away from his throat. "Who killed her? Who killed any of them? It couldn't have been you, you were in here the entire time." Sam's eyes narrow down into slits, the heat of his look blazing and murderous. "Unless you were behind it. Did you have an assistant? Someone who could carry on your legacy, or whatever you call it?"

Lucifer stares at him for moment, tilting his head slightly to the right before a wide grin begins to stretch his lips. The air is suddenly biting, skin crawling with the chills and shivers that only the frigid blue of Lucifer's eyes could give. "Why yes Sam, I did have one. A long time ago." The smile grows wider, and Sam briefly wonders if it's possible to get frostbite just from looking at it, but he's immediately ripped away from his thoughts as a single finger runs across his cheek, fingertip grazing against the drying outline of his tears, thumb moving over to massage his chapped lips. Sam feels himself start shivering again, feels himself start falling into a sea of panic. "He liked to rip out the eyes, cut out the tongue. Made him feel better, I think" Lucifer muses, his hand dropping towards Sam's chest. His breath is hitched, uneven, eyes downward he tries to ignore the touch, ignore the words. It's all so fucked up. All of it. And he's so scared out of his mind, heart pounding madly against his chest, vision blurring, and he thinks maybe he's falling into a deep dark hole.

But then Lucifer slams him back down against the table with loud clang, fingers tangled in long brown hair as he forces Sam to look at the blurred metal reflection, made him look at himself straight in the eye. "Would you like to meet him, Sammy?" Lucifer asks coolly, forcing Sam's face closer to the silver surface. "Say "hi" Sam. Must've been a while since you last let him out."

He's shaking, bones rattling, pulse racing, mind drowning and sinking into a storm of thoughts and memories. "I didn't do any of this," Sam manages to say, face still pressed tightly against the cool metal. "I wouldn't kill anyone. _I wouldn't kill Jess."_

Lucifer hums in thought, nodding his head as if in agreement. "And that's where it all comes down to, isn't it Sam?" he says casually, as if he isn't bending over a nearly naked detective over an interrogation table. "Control. Trying to finally take charge. Become your own man." And then he's blanketing over Sam like the darkness of night, grin widening slightly as he presses his cold, cold lips against the shell of Sam's ear. "Everything is your fault, Sammy" he whispers like a serpent, and suddenly Sam feels naked and exposed, and this man is wrapped all around him, suffocating him, crushing his bones, making all the blood in his veins turn to ice. "Maybe you wouldn't kill Jess. But he would."

"Who?" Sam manages to gasp out, lips trembling. "Who would?"

Lucifer just looks at him, with something that maybe one would call "pity" in his eyes.

And then Sam knows.

He looks back down at the cool surface of the table, and comes face to face with forest green eyes staring right back at him, the plump, full lips of the reflection pressing against his in a distorted version of a kiss.

Dean.

—-

_"You need help Sam," John said, trying to get his son to sit down, rough hands grasping at thin shoulders. Sam gave him a hard stare, refusing to budge from where his feet were firmly planted. He ignored his father's tired voice, ignored the dark circles that outlined the crease of his eyes._

_"I don't need anything," Sam countered, throat clenching and tight. "All I need is to get the fuck out of this house. I'm not your toy." His gaze stayed steadfast with his father's, fists balling up until they turned white._

_"You need to stop this…" John tried to say before being cut off by a rough shove. He grunted, mustering up as much patience as he could. "Sam, stop, we have to go-"_

_"I'm not going anywhere," the seventeen year-old snapped. "You move us around like it's a fucking game, make us train day and night just so we can be perfect copies of you. Dean might be your little soldier, but I'M not. I'm not like Dean."_

_John's voice faltered. "You're scaring me, boy." he said quietly._

_Sam glares at him. "Why? Because I think for myself? Because I'm not perfect like my perfect brother-?"_

_A heavy shove and Sam's backed against a peeling motel wall, breath knocked out of him. John manhandled him, fists trembling, nails digging into Sam's skin. "No Sam," John croaked out, and his voice was thick and watery. "It's because…Jesus, son." He closed his eyes, and ran hand against Sam's cheek, calloused palms cradling him tenderly, desperately. "You…" John paused, taking in a shaky breath before latching his reddened gaze onto Sam's. "You don't have one, Sam. _You don't have a brother._"_

—-

Sam is crying now, really bawling, with a snot-nosed face and body wrecking itself in sobs and choked calls of "Dean." Lucifer watches him fall apart, watches his resolve fade away faster than footprints on a beach. And it's beautiful, breaking him like this, warping and twisting him, because there is no big brother to give a yin to that yang, no constant support there to offer its services. He licks his lips and groans, pushing up the shirt and pressing soft kisses up Sam's spine. "You betrayed Dean. You turned him into a monster. And now he's gone. Forever. But I can be here, Sam," Lucifer whispers softly, breath blowing across the small of Sam's back. "I've always been here. Always been watching you, from the moment you were born, been your guardian angel. Made sure no one touched you. Made sure you were safe."

He's quiet and still now, nothing more than a few shuddering sniffs breaking the air. "That's the problem right there Sam," Lucifer says with a sigh, reaching down and yanking Sam's hair once more. The boy hisses, and begins to struggle before Lucifer smacks his ass hard. A moan escapes his lips, and he curses himself, curses himself for getting into this bizarre situation with one of the country's worst criminal. "You just don't do good on your own. Someone always gets hurt, because of you. Jess is just the tip of the iceberg. You need someone to own you, to love you," There's a long pause, and Sam wonders if it's over, if he can leave, but then two fingers slam into Sam's hole and he screams, screams and sobs and wriggles away.

"I've got no lube. Sorry Sam." Lucifer says with a shrug. "It's a privilege that we prisoners cannot indulge in."

A loud grunt is the only response he gets. He pushes his fingers deeper into the detective, only to receive a small moan. A thin smile makes its way onto his face. "Do you want it to hurt Sammy?" Lucifer asks before thrusting his fingers again. A pleasurable shudder runs down Sam's spine, though Lucifer could only imagine how hard he was biting his lips. "Do want to get hurt for all the bad things you've done to people?"

"Yes," Sam chokes out, almost whimpering. "I'm a bad person. I'm a freak. I need to be punished."

That's all the prompt Lucifer needs, pushing Sam further against the table, pulling out his hard cock and lining it up to Sam's hole. He manages to get it all in with just one thrust, tight heat clenching around him painfully, Sam's screams music to his ears. "You've done so many horrible things, Sam," Lucifer pants as he fucks Sam's ass relentlessly, feeling it stretch and clench and tear. "Everything is your fault. No one loves you anymore."

Sam's rocking backwards, his round butt slapping against Lucifer's thighs. It hurts. It fucking hurts. But he deserves it. He deserves all of it. He sees that now. "Everything is my fault," he manages to say before letting out another shriek. "I'm a bad person."

And then Lucifer's wrapping his arms around Sam's waist, pulling him off his cock before pulling up a chair and sitting down on it, yanking Sam down with him. Sam straddles his thighs, lowering himself on Lucifer's dick slowly, not daring to meet his eyes. "Look at me," Lucifer says simply, so Sam does, Sam keeps his eyes on his as the burn of Lucifer's cock breeches him, face scrunching up in pain and maybe pleasure, and Lucifer can see it all.

"But you know what Sam?" Lucifer murmurs as he grips Sam's hips tightly, as he fucks up into that unforgiving heat. "I still love you," he says sweetly, slowing down his thrusts to a gentle sway of his hips. "I still care for you. I don't care that you've done so much wrong. You're special to me." Sam lets out a shaky breath, leaning his chin against Lucifer's shoulder. Tears are prickling his eyes again. But this time he's not ashamed.

"The question is Sam," a finger trails down Sam's chest and towards his prick, and he arches towards the touch. "Do you love me?"

The thrusts begin to speed up again, and Sam nods. "Yes. I love you. I love you more than anything."

Lucifer smiles, placing a hand over Sam tear-soaked cheek. "Good," he purrs, and Sam shudders, nuzzling his face against the caressing palm. The fucking is slow, not as slow as before, but gentle, kind. "So you like me inside you Sam? You like feeling me fill you up?"

Sam nods once more, lifting his hips to speed up the movement, and Lucifer lets him, makes Sam lean further onto his shoulder, tightly grabs his asscheeks and spreads them open as he fucks into his hole. "You want me inside you forever?" Lucifer whispers in his ear as he slams into Sam's tight ass with quick, rough thrusts. "I know what they call me Sam. They call me Lucifer. Call me the Devil." He looks into Sam's eyes and it's cold again. Cold and icy. "You like the devil inside you Sammy? You like the way Lucifer loves you?"

"Yes," Sam manages to stutter out, spreading his legs further to take Lucifer's cock in deeper. "Yes. Yes to everything. I love you Lucifer. I love you inside me. I love the way you love me." He looks at Lucifer as he fucks up and down his cock. He looks broken. Helpless. Alone. "Please don't leave me," Sam begs, hugging the convict. "Stay with me forever."

Lucifer groans. He's approaching his orgasm fast, and the pain kink is getting Sam somewhere as well, because he looks like he's right on the edge. He yanks Sam's face closer and their noses are just barely grazing each other as they move relentlessly. "There's a way for me to stay," Lucifer purrs, and the smooth tones wrap themselves around Sam's body. "You only have to do one thing."

Sam's right there. He's just a few thrusts away from coming, and he wants to stay with Lucifer forever, because Lucifer is the only one who loves him anymore, and someone needs to keep him from hurting anyone else. "Wh…what's that?" Sam asks, his movement becoming more frenzied.

Lucifer ghosts his lips against Sam's feeling the other man tremble on his lap. "All you need to do," he whispers, nipping the bottom lip just a bit. "Is say 'Yes'."

Sam lets out a sob before nodding vigorously. "Yes, Lucifer," Sam pants out, "Yes, yes yes yes yessssssss" and then he's coming, clenching his ass around Lucifer's dick, face contorted in pleasure, letting breathy little "yes's" as he dribbles out his release, rocking against Lucifer's cock until he too lets out a soft "Good." and fills Sam up with his come. The taller man collapses against the convict's chest, content and tired.

…

And the devil just thinks how easy it all was. How simple it was to pick apart Sam Winchester, break him down brick by brick, dissect his spirit and his soul. Here, he thought Sam was a man driven by his pride; and he was right in a way; all of his darkness grows and thrives on the bitter waters of pride and reckless ambition. But Sam is also a man of the heart, of love and forgiveness, of giving even moreso than taking. Leaning against a stairway for guidance, following the shadows to find his soul.

That's what made Sam Winchester strong, Lucifer thinks, and he looks around at the dark room, watches as it fades away into a cemetery. Watches as the Sam on his lap morphs from being some LA detective into being the boy with the demon blood, the boy who brought flowers for his dead girlfriend every year without fail, the boy who thought he could outthink angels. Sam's on the grass now, sprawled across "Jessica Lee Moore" 's grave, a bouquet of flowers spilling from his fingers. Lucifer looks at the other hand, and sees a phone. A dozen missed calls. All from Dean. Lucifer leans towards Sam's lips, the movement waking him.

"You said yes," the Devil whispers against his parted mouth, and the boy lets out a shuddering breath, relaxing, eyelids fluttering shut as he kisses Satan sweetly.

From the corner of his eye, Lucifer thinks he catches a pair of green eyes glaring at him through the wind.

It makes him wonder.


End file.
